During the course of the years in which I have been more or less closely associated with other prostitutes I have frequently listened to explanations as to just what this one or that owed her degradation; the particular villainy to which she attributed her advent into a life of shame. The usual story is one of seduction by a lover under the inevitable extenuating circumstance of “before I really knew anything,” with the occasional variation, “he put something in my drink, and when I came too…” or, “he was stronger than I was and I couldn’t do anything.” In these glib stories, in which none but the inconsequential details vary, the man is always to blame and the girl is never a willing accomplice. She is always, by artifice, force or deception, and subsequent abandonment, the victim of some man’s depravity.
I confess that I have listened to these tales and even witnessed a few tears of self-pity, with a certain amount of skepticism. In thinking back over my own life I can find nothing which would serve as a valid excuse to shift upon somebody else the responsibility of my own condition, nor can I in justice accuse any man of having instigated my moral degradation, although the number of those who have taken advantage of my voluntary delinquency is legion. True, were I to hypocritically search for some contributing factor with which to justify myself in my own mind or in the minds of others, I might place some blame upon the environment under which I was raised as a child, yet, a conscientious analysis of my subsequent life leads me to no other conclusion than that had these conditions been entirely normal I would still, just as water seeks its level, have drifted into a life analogous to that in which you find me.
I do not believe that character is made by environment or training. I am something of a fatalist and it is my conviction that the seeds of goodness or badness, kindness or malevolence, virtue or viciousness, are implanted in the soul right from the beginning, and while some slight modifications either for better or for worse may be possible under varying circumstances, the net result will not be greatly changed.
In my childhood days I knew two brothers, sons of affluent parents highly respected in the community. These two boys were raised under the most favorable home and moral environment possible to imagine. The elder, always the personification of honor and circumspection, occupies a position of trust high in the affairs of the nation. The younger child of the same parents, raised under exactly the same conditions and influences, early in life manifested all the characteristics of an irresponsible nature and is today being sought for his participation in a robbery which culminated in murder. I know of other such instances.
I was seduced by no man, but I managed to get rid of my maidenhead before I was twelve years old. By the time I was fourteen I had been fucked by a dozen young fellows and several older men. I wasn’t infatuated or deceived or coerced. I let them fuck me because it felt nice, because I liked it, and even the fact that shillings and even larger sums of money could be easily and pleasantly acquired didn’t play any very important part in my complacency.
I was eight and Rene, my foster brother, ten when mutual curiosity about each other’s little sexual attributes first began to take the form of child efforts to unravel Nature’s mysteries. These efforts, which at first did not pass much beyond the observational stage, with an occasional touching and fingering, were inspired more by curiosity than sexual promptings; nevertheless, we sensed more elements of forbidden fruit and exercised considerable caution in hiding ourselves when the impulse was upon us to gratify our curiosity.
Under the roof of our home was an attic which was used as a sort of storeroom for discarded furniture and other odds and ends. Rene and I converted it into a species of playhouse.
Access to this attic was gained by a steep and narrow stairway enclosed between dark walls, and our parents rarely climbed these stairs, and would have given us ample warning by their footsteps had it occurred to them to do so; we felt reasonably secure, and always repaired to this obscure hideaway when the mood to do something naughty was upon us.
Mamma Agnes was not my real mother. My own mother had died when I was four years old. With the practical philosophy of a widower left with a small child on his hands, Papa lost no time in acquiring a new wife, and in less than six months I had a mamma and a stepbrother two years older than myself.
I lay neither censure nor praise at the feet of Mamma Agnes. She was kind to me in an indifferent way and I believe she cared as much for me as she did for her own child, Rene. She was simply not the maternal type, and though she accepted the material obligations which our presence represented uncomplainingly and kept us clean and well fed, there existed an almost complete absence of anything in the nature of moral or spiritual upbringing. We were punished occasionally, but only when our misbehavior constituted an annoyance to others.
For two years Rene and I slept in the same bed. When I was about six I remember hearing Papa tell Mamma Agnes that we were too big to be sleeping together. Mamma Agnes made some protest which I didn’t understand, but the next night a bed was arranged for Rene in another room and thereafter we slept apart. I missed feeling Rene’s warm little body close to mine in the night and wanted to know why we were not to sleep together anymore. Mamma Agnes made an evasive explanation. “It isn’t nice for boys and girls to sleep together,” was the tactless reply which only served to kindle the restless fires of curiosity. During the next year or two some light, still of an obscure nature, was thrown on the subject by other children who were not adverse to sharing their knowledge with us.
I was not supposed to see Rene’s dickey, and he likewise was not supposed to see my cunny. This was the sum and substance, apparently, of the incomprehensive order of things which had abruptly terminated our bedfellowship. And immediately we both began to feel the itch to see what we were not supposed to see, and to which we had paid but scant attention when the opportunity had been freely at hand and un-forbidden.
The juvenile soul thirsts for knowledge-of a certain kind. What was the real basis of all this sly mystery about little boys’ dickies and little girls’ cunnies? “A boy puts his dickey in a girl’s cunny,” said one. “That’s the way you get babies, only you can’t have a baby until you’re married.” “When you rub your cunny it gives you a nice feeling,” said another.
In the security of our attic hideaway Rene and I diligently sought the answer to the mystery. The erstwhile playroom was converted into a juvenile brothel. We dragged an ancient mattress from behind an accumulation of wrecked furniture and laid it out on the floor. I straddled out on this mattress with my legs apart while Rene looked and fingered until his curiosity was temporarily satisfied and I was compensated by being permitted to look at and squeeze his little dickey. It was a source of never-ending wonder to watch it go through its erotic evolutions, expanding, swelling, hardening, until it projected stiffly and rigidly forward. I tried to see whether, by holding it tightly in my fist, I could prevent it from getting big, but in my grasp it seemed to grow even faster, easily displacing my clenched fingers and causing me curious, shivery sensations.
Time and time again we tried to effect actual copulation, but there was something amiss, and the failure puzzled us. The playing, looking and fingering were pleasant, but there was something lacking, something sweet, something elusive which we sensed was close at hand but which still eluded us.
Picture to yourself a group of twenty happy, carefree youngsters of both sexes, ages ranging from eight to twelve, their strident little voices ringing out in careless abandon as they pursue their innocent amusements, converting a refuse-strewn lot into an enchanted fairyland. Even the bloated loafers and derelicts of the street who cast a casual glance at the little innocents must not fail to feel a twinge of sentimentality.
London Bridge is falling down,
Falling down, falling down,
London Bridge is falling down,
My fair lay-dee.
But, hark! There is more to the song. The shriller masculine voices take the ascendancy, and little girls are heard only in a confusion of laughter and giggling.
Madge and Jerry are having a suck,
Having a suck, having a suck,
Madge and Jerry are having a suck,
My fair lay-dee.
After the suck they’ll have a fuck,
Oh, what luck, oh, what luck,
After the suck, they’ll have a fuck,
My fair lay-dee.
Out of a house whose open windows are in close proximity to the merrymakers bursts an old Irish woman, brandishing a broom, her wrinkled face suffused with rage.
“Git out o’here ye narsty little spalpeens or I’ll swab yer dirty, stinkin’ mouths fer ye, blarsted little imps o’Satan!” she screams as twenty pair of feet fly in twenty different directions under the menace of the broom in the hands of the scandalized old beldame.
When I was about eleven, Pap’s earning capacity was so reduced by drunkenness that Mamma Agnes was obliged to take in a boarder. The best room of the house, the one which had formerly served as a parlor, was converted to the purpose and rented to a Mr. Peters.
Mr. Peters, a watchmaker by occupation, was a gentleman of forty-five or thereabouts who radiated jollity and good nature and who professed a great love for children. He took an immediate fancy to me and soon pennies and farthings began coming my way in an abundance I had never before known. Mr. Peters constantly called on me to run trifling errands for him, a package of fags, a penny paper, a bottle of ale, and these small services were invariably rewarded with some fulsome compliment, an affectionate pat on the cheek and a coin of modest denomination.
As our friendship progressed, his amiable affection took the form of playful caresses, squeezings, and pettings. This did not trouble me and I was observant enough to note that the affectionate overtures were more pronounced and subsequently more remunerative when we were alone. So I was soon watching for opportunities to be near him when no one else was around, especially when Mamma Agnes was out with her shopping basket.
On such occasions he took me in his lap and as his hands roved ceaselessly over my body he filled my ears with a running fire of pleasant flattery. My legs seemed to be the principal objects of his admiration and as he pinched and squeezed them playfully to emphasize his words, his good-natured, florid face would become still more florid and little beads of perspiration would appear on his forehead.
One day Mr. Peters surprised me with the following observation:
“Well, bless me, if our little Jessie isn’t getting prettier and prettier every day. Such legs… such legs. Do you know,” he continued, as he passed his hands appraisingly down over my hips and thighs, “I have a suspicion that you aren’t really a girl at all. Girls don’t have such fine legs as these. I’ll bet you’re a boy instead of a girl.”
“Boys don’t wear dresses or have long hair,” I exclaimed.
“A-a-a-h!” he answered, with a knowing look, shaking his finger skeptically in my face, “that could be just to fool people! A boy could wear dresses and let his hair grow long. Yes…” he mused abstractedly, “the more I think about it, the more I believe you’re really a boy dressed in girl’s clothes.
“I am so a girl!” I protested indignantly.
“I’ve had my suspicions for a long time,” he continued, ignoring my protestations. “Tell you what,” he added confidentially, “I’ll lay you a shilling you’re really a boy!”
“Very well!” I exclaimed, excitedly. “You can ask Mamma Agnes!”
“Oh, no!” he objected hastily. “She’s not here now and besides she might be on your side and say you’re a girl anyway.”
“Well, who are you going to ask?”
“Hum-m-m-m-m,” he murmured, pausing in thoughtful meditation. “There ought to be some way we could settle the bet without asking anybody.”
I waited expectantly.
“Ha! I’ve got it!” he exclaimed, as a happy solution of the perplexing problem suddenly occurred to him. “But remember now, if I win you must pay me the next shilling you get! I’ve got mine right here now to pay you if I lose!” And he fished a shiny new shilling from his pocket and displayed it before my eyes.
“Yes, yes!” I answered eagerly. “I’ll pay you if I lose! The very next shilling I get! How are you going to tell?”
“Why, that’s easy,” he replied. “Funny we didn’t think of it at first. Boys have a… ah… a little sort of dangle between their legs… right there… and girls haven’t any. Now all you have to do is just unfasten your panties and we’ll take a peek. And remember, if you’ve got a dangle, like I think you have, you must pay me the next shilling you get. I’ll trust you for it!”
Although I was momentarily confounded by this bizarre but quite obvious method of resolving the question, my eagerness to prove the injustice of his accusation, coupled with the prospect of so easily gaining a shilling, outweighed any small scruples I may have felt about exposing my cunny to him, and without a word I raised my short dress, unfastened my panties and pulled them down low enough to reveal the deciding factor between femininity and masculinity.
Somewhat to my surprise Mr. Peters’ doubts were not immediately dispelled. His flushed face took on a deeper hue and he seemed to be having some difficulty in speaking. He suggested that I remove my panties entirely so he could see better and when this was done it was necessary for him to make a most thorough inspection before he was finally convinced that I didn’t have a dangle hidden between my thighs.
After quite a lengthy examination, during which he seemed almost on the point of suffocation as his fingers lingered about my cunny, pressing, feeling, exploring, he sighed deeply and reluctantly conceded his defeat, confessing himself in error. My sex was vindicated, established and proved beyond any reasonable question and his repentant sorrow at having doubted it resulted in an extra shilling in addition to the one originally posted.
When Rene came home I jubilantly displayed the two pieces of silver, explained their origin and told him how Mr. Peters had even thought I might have a dangle tucked up inside my cunny. My account of the incident seemed to make him restive and a few minutes later he suggested that we go up to the attic to play.
The truth was that Mr. Peters’ insistent feeling and fingering had left me with an odd sort of itching in my cunny. It felt excessively moist and hot, and I agreed to Rene’s suggestion with alacrity. We slipped upstairs and, following our usual routine, I took off my panties and lay down on my back on the old mattress with my knees up and widely apart while Rene nudged and punched at me with his stiff little pintle.
His erratic movements frequently brought the tip against the upper part of my cunny and each time it pressed or rubbed against a certain spot I felt an agreeable tremor. To capture this elusive sweetness I reached down and, taking his dickey in my fingers, I held it against the sensitive spot. There was a little bump of flesh there which swelled and twitched and instinctively I rubbed the end of his dickey against it. The pleasant feeling again permeated the whole lower part of my body, sending such a delicious radiation surging through my nerves that I trembled violently. The sensation culminated with a sudden burst of delight which caused me to moan and gasp in ecstasy. I had experienced my first real orgasm.
I had always loved and admired my foster brother Rene. He was handsomer than most boys. He had beautiful dark brown curly hair and his skin was white and smooth. When he effected my first orgasm something was awakened in me which changed the affection to complete adoration. I do not think I have ever loved anyone more, or even as much as I loved Rene.
I gave him one of the shillings I had won so easily, and as I continued to expiate on Mr. Peters’ supreme ignorance, he threw me a pitying look and exclaimed:
“Are you balmy? He knew you were a girl! He just wanted to get to look at your cunny.”
The light dawned on me, but the two shillings dimmed any feeling of chagrin, and even a hazy thought of future exploitation half-formed itself in my mind. I had long since sensed the fact that Mr. Peters’ interest in me was rather more than casual. If he had given me the two shillings just to look at my cunny, maybe he might want to look at it again sometime.
There was probably something in my eyes which betrayed this expectation to Mr. Peters, for when I again had an opportunity to slip into his room, he arose hastily and snapped the catch on the door. Returning to his chair he drew me between his knees and as I stood there he passed his hands caressingly down over my body from my armpits to my knees, and when they ascended they were under my dress instead of outside. He stroked my bare thighs above the tops of my stockings and all the while a ceaseless flow of words fell from his lips as though with this he sought to distract my attention from the movement of his hands.
“Well, well, well, who’s here but pretty little Jessie, come to cheer up poor old lonely Peters. My sweet little cabbage. She’s lonely, too. Mamma Agnes is gone and Jessie’s all alone in the big house… isn’t she…?” He paused, waiting for my nodded confirmation. “Well, well, well. We’ll have a nice little chat in here all by ourselves.”
His hands had worked up inside the loose legs of my panties and his fingers were squeezing the cheeks of my bottom.
“Such a pretty, clever little girl… such legs… ‘
He withdrew his hands after a final affectionate squeeze and raised them to the elastic band which sustained my panties about my waist, and in a moment I felt them being slipped down over my hips.
I waited expectantly.
When the panties were down and hanging loosely about my knees, Mr. Peters put an arm around me, drew me closer, and the next instant his hand was cupped over my cunny. This maneuver surprised me somewhat, for I supposed he intended to look at it again. But no, something different was going to happen. The hand pressed over my cunny began to move with a gentle grinding motion, and almost at once those delicious feelings which the tip of Rene’s dickey had previously evoked began again. Involuntarily, I glanced toward Mr. Peters’ lap. Along the inside length of his trouser leg was an enormous swelling.
As I fixed my astonished gaze on it I could see the cloth jerking under the spasmodic expansions and contractions underneath. But the rapidly increasing intensity of the pleasurable sensations which were now tingling through my body under Mr. Peters’ manipulations soon caused me to forget everything else. As the climax approached my knees began to tremble and when it reached its zenith, releasing those indescribably delicious thrills to go shooting through my body, I swayed dizzily. Mr. Peters was still talking, but I no longer knew what he was saying.
When Rene came home I had another shilling to show him. He listened attentively to my account of just what had happened and wanted me to show him exactly what Mr. Peters had done to me. I took off my panties and placed his hand in the same position in which Mr. Peters had held his. Although the contact of Rene’s soft little hand was much more agreeable than Mr. Peters’ hard and calloused palm, my sexual orgasm, probably exhausted by the thorough masturbating I had undergone, refused to respond to Rene’s efforts. However, his own emotions were aroused by the pantomime and, yielding to his command, I lay down on the mattress and let him straddle me while he nuzzled and poked at my cunny with his little cock. I took it in my fingers to press it against the spot which was most responsive to its touch and it was while holding it thus that Rene’s movements suddenly became more precipitate.
“Squeeze it tight!” he gasped.
I turned my eyes toward his face. It was strained and tense and his breath was short and panting. Something of his emotion infected me and prompted quite by instinct, I clutched his stiff little dickey tighter and began to work it with my fingers. It was no longer even in contact with my cunny but sliding in and out of my clenched fist.
His legs stiffened rigidly and his movements, except for a final convulsive shudder, ceased. At the same instant I sensed the presence of some warm, moist substance in my hand. I looked at it wonderingly and found my palm and fingers sticky with a milky, viscid fluid.
One night, a week or so later, Rene and I were alone in the house. Papa rarely came in before midnight and was generally so tipsy that Mamma Agnes would have to put him to bed. On this occasion she had gone to visit a sick friend and did not expect to return until quite late. Mr. Peters had heard something of this and had whispered to me that I should not go to bed until he returned as he was sure he would want me to go on an errand for him.
He came in about nine o’clock and after confirming Mamma Agnes’ absence, sent me to the corner to get a paper with instructions to bring it to his room when I came back. I had already communicated to Rene my suspicion that Mr. Peters would “do something” to me when I took the paper into his room, and Rene was going to peek through the keyhole. It even occurred to me to take off my panties before going in.
My juvenile intuition was quite correct and Mr. Peters masturbated me again while I stood between his knees holding my dress up and my foster brother Rene crouched outside the door watching through the keyhole.
Poor Mr. Peters. He never attempted to do anything except play with me in this fashion and whether it was in his mind to venture further as my sexual instincts unfolded will never be known, for one day, less than three months after his first tentative overture, he was knocked down by an omnibus and carried to a hospital where he died without ever regaining consciousness. I cried heartily when it was known that we would never see him again and his simple effects were packed up for removal. In my estimation he was a kindly and generous soul who had been the fount of many blessings.
A short time after Mr. Peters’ departure, a neighborhood scandal was bruited about among the residents of the vicinity. Down the street, in the big house on the corner, lived a retired sea captain and his rather large family. They were rated as well-to-do and employed a maidservant, a cute little thing whose trim, silk-clad legs, black uniform and lace-edged apron I had always secretly envied.
Among the younger children of his household was a boy named Leonard and a girl named Maisie. Leonard was about the same age as Rene, but was undersized and wore glasses which gave his wizened countenance a peculiarly owlish aspect. Maisie was very pretty. She was two years younger than I. Both these children were precocious. It was said that Maisie would show her cunny to any boy who wanted to see it and Leonard bragged that he fucked the maidservant whenever he felt like it. There was some doubt as to the veracity of this, but the doubt was dispelled abruptly when the maidservant suddenly disappeared and the older children of the household whispered into the ears of their special confidants that she had been summarily dismissed after having been caught in the very act of sucking Leonard’s dickey while supposed to be supervising his bath.
“She had it right in her mouth when Mamma caught her!” they whispered impressively.
Rene pressed Leonard for details when the opportunity later presented itself, and listened to an entirely frank exposition of the affair, which he then communicated to me.
The liaison with the maidservant had been started several months previously by the versatile little maid herself. Each night, on tucking him into bed, she had been in the habit of putting her hand under the covers to see whether he had a hard-on. Inasmuch as such was almost invariably the case, and the condition not being favorable in her opinion to sound sleep, her remedy was to reduce the rigidity by means of a hand massage to make it “lie down and go to sleep.”
One night she told Leonard that her efforts to make him sleepy were having a contrary effect on her and that she couldn’t go to sleep for hours after having put him to sleep. There was a way both could have their sleeplessness cured. She would slip into his room later that night after everybody was in bed and explain it to him. She squeezed his dickey to make sure it was in its usual state of erection but refrained from taking the customary measures to make it lie down.
When all was quiet in the household she slipped into his room like a little ghost in her white nightgown, threw the covers back and lay down by him. Taking his dickey in one hand she worked it until it was in its maximum state of rigidity. With the other she guided his fingers between her legs and with various motions and whispered instructions showed him how to reciprocate the message.
“Her cunny has hair all around it, just like a grown-up person,” confided Leonard.
After a while she stopped the rubbing and told him to get on top of her. When he was in the proper position she started his dickey in the right direction and, poppo! It went inside, just like that.
At this juncture in the recital, Rene interrupted to clear up a confusing point. Had Leonard’s dickey gone clear in, or had it just sort of rubbed along her cunny?
Emphatically, it had gone in, entirely and completely, not a bit stayed outside. He was sure and specific on this point. It was dark that time, but they had done it subsequently in the daytime when he could even look down and see it while it was going in and out, and it absolutely went clear in.
The story of Leonard’s relation with the maidservant progressed from frigging to fucking and finally to the last act, in which the unexpected entry of his mother into the bathroom while he was enjoying, and not for the first time, the delights of being sucked off by the versatile maid had brought an end to the fun.
Now the maid was gone and he was obliged to massage his dickey for himself at night in order to make it lie down and go to sleep.
The sucking part was rather incomprehensible to Rene and me. We were still rank novices in the arts of love and had much to learn. It was a cause of preoccupation to us that we hadn’t been able to approximate anything like the success Leonard and the maidservant had achieved. Rene’s dickey simply couldn’t find its way in. We knew in theory that it should, and we had both peered and looked and fingered in an effort to find a hole big enough. There didn’t seem to be any, or if there was, it was closed up very tightly.
With the candidness of youth Rene confided the difficulty to Leonard and Leonard promptly offered to show him how to do it. I never objected to anything Rene proposed, and submitted myself obediently to the demonstration. Leonard knew no more about maidenheads than Rene but he had the confidence which comes with experience and when I took off my panties and lay down on the mattress he placed himself between my knees and got his dickey which, despite his slighter stature, was fully as big as Rene’s, against my cunny. He gave a lunge, and a shriek escaped my lips which, had there been anyone else in the house at the time, would have brought an investigation. His dickey had gone in all right, but the sensation I experienced was far from being conducive to further experimentation. After the first shriek of pain I began to cry, the tears rolled down my cheeks and I struggled to release myself.
Panic-stricken at the unexpected results, Leonard jerked away from me and his dickey came out stained with a reddish fluid and a few drops trickled down the inside of my thighs. Leonard was so frightened that he fled from the scene, leaving Rene and me alone.
The pain was only momentary and as it died away I stopped crying, but gazed with fright at the spots of blood which stained the white flesh between my thighs. Rene dabbed at them nervously with his handkerchief, and when no more appeared some of our assurance returned, but I was aggrieved because of the stab of pain I had suffered. When I stood up a feeling of soreness in my sexual parts was very pronounced. Fortunately, Mamma Agnes made no embarrassing inquiries when she found me in bed at an hour much earlier than my accustomed one, and by the following day the soreness had mostly passed away.
Thus I lost my maidenhead with pleasure neither to myself nor to my violator.
Having my hymen punched out in so disagreeable a manner without knowing exactly what had happened except that it was something decidedly unpleasant resulted in a reluctance on my part to lend myself to further exploitations which lasted for some weeks and might have endured longer had not my emotions been stimulated anew by a curious incident.
While rummaging through a pile of trash, old newspapers and discarded magazines which had been swept out of a long-vacant house nearby, Rene found a little green-covered book which, on being opened, disclosed to his startled eyes a picture which confirmed the basic theory of love. It was a rather neatly executed sketch showing a beautiful young lady reclining upon a grassy mound under a tree. Her dresses were drawn up, she had no panties on, and above the edge of her disordered and half-open bodice peeped a pair of bubbies of most astonishing proportions.
Between her thighs, half-lying, half-kneeling, with one of her silk clad legs thrown over his hips, was a young boy. From his middle projected a dickey which penetrated and was lost to sight for half its length in her cunny, the protruding lips of which were plainly indicated just below a profusion of curly black hair.
As soon as he recovered from the shock this picture caused him, Rene streaked for home and excitedly signaled for me to follow him to the attic. Breathlessly we gazed at the picture, then turned our attention to the text which accompanied it. As we devoured the printed pages I became aware of that moist, swollen, itchy feeling in my cunny. The desire to experience anew the delicious sensations which Mr. Peters’ finger on several occasions, and the tip of Rene’s dickey on others had afforded me began to surge through me and grow more and more insistent as we slowly digested the revelations contained in the booklet and which were phrased quite within our powers of comprehension.
The title which graced the story was: “The Passionate Governess, or Hubert’s First Fuck.” Before that book finally left our possession we had read it so many times either of us could have recited it word for word by memory.
It was about a beautiful young governess in a wealthy home who entered into amorous adventures with one of her charges, Hubert, a boy of fifteen. After a number of tantalizing episodes, in one of which she catches Hubert peeking through the keyhole and masturbating himself while she is bathing, she decided to gratify his curiosity and save him from the vice of masturbation by letting him have sexual intercourse with her.
The scene chosen for the sweet lesson in love is a beautiful sylvan glade reached by crossing a lake in a rowboat. As the pretty governess sits in the prow of the boat with Hubert at the oars facing her, she carelessly permits her skirts to become so elevated above her knees that Hubert is afforded a delightful opportunity to peek between her legs and get teasing glimpses of the charms only half concealed under the frilly lace of her panties. Under the stimulation of this enticing sight he is in a suitable condition for his initiation in the rites of love.
After exciting preliminaries in which passionate kisses, caresses and fondling of each other’s sexual parts are indulged in, and during which Hubert’s curiosity regarding the more intimate aspects of feminine anatomy is completely satisfied, the real initiation takes place as shown in the illustration, and Hubert learns that the delights attendant to plunging his dickey into the mossy glen between a pretty girl’s legs are far superior to those he had formerly experienced in masturbation.
It was a story with a moral, as you will have observed, intended to discourage young people from practicing self-abuse.
When we had finished the last page I felt moist and sticky and it seemed to me that my panties were wet. Rene’s trousers were jutted out in front in a way which showed what effect the story had had on him.
He looked at me, and I looked at him.
“Shall we?” he whispered.
“Yes!” I answered, all recollection of the pain I had suffered the last time this attic had been used for purposes of fornication completely obliterated.
While Rene was unfastening his trousers I kicked off my panties and lay down on the soft mattress. My emotions had been greatly excited by the vivid little story and the first touches of Rene’s dickey against the moist flesh of my cunny were indescribably sweet. For a few moments I lay there languidly thrilling to the soft friction and pressure as the tip of his dickey roved about over the sensitive area like a person groping for a door in the dark. But suddenly I stiffened in alarm for I distinctly felt the constriction which accompanied an actual penetration and which brought back to my consciousness what had happened before.
With muscles tensed in readiness to free myself with the first indication of pain I held my breath and waited. But there was no pain. To the contrary, the sensations I felt as Rene’s dickey slipped further into the tight little hole were more agreeable than anything I had yet experienced.
I moaned, not with pain this time, but with delight, and the next moment, actuated by those natural instincts which need no previous experience nor teacher to guide, we were both frantically heaving our bottoms up and down in an effort to taste without delay the supreme delight of which the intoxicating thrills now tantalizing us were but the forerunners.
It comes but once in a lifetime, that indescribable, celestial glow which suffuses the souls and blends the bodies of lovers in unforgettable rapture, the first perfect sexual union of two beings who feel toward each other the tender passion of youth unmarred as yet by maturity’s grosser complexities, and I affirm that those who have not tasted the fruit of love under these conditions have missed what is probably life’s sweetest experience.
Rene and I had finally succeeded in unlocking the door which had hitherto obstructed our progress and with the unlocking the latent germs of sensuousness, undoubtedly implanted in my very soul, sprang rapidly to full bloom. My ardor exceeded his, and it was I who now suggested and even begged frequent visits to the dusty attic where, with my panties off and my dress up or entirely removed, I writhed and suspired ecstatically in response to his vigorous thrusts. And; after a delicious orgasm had rewarded our efforts, I sighed inwardly with regret at the inevitable transformation his little cock underwent, dropping slowly but surely downward, its virile rigidity degenerating into a flaccid inertia which incapacitated it from further immediate use.